Tuesday, December 09, 2008

By Then, I Had No Skills Left...

It all ended with me sitting helplessly and hoping that a solution might present itself before the media got involved.  I couldn't seem to process enough of the physics of it all to find my way clear.

These sorts of things generally come at the end of too much thinking.  If you use up all your brain power on other stuff, there are no reserves left over to deal with the little problems life sometimes throws your way.  OK.  My way.  I can't imagine that this happens to too many people or that, if it did, they would admit to it.

First of all, the clock in my living room is losing time rapidly.  Changing the batteries is not helping.  It was fifteen minutes behind the times this morning and required that I do all sorts of higher level math in order to figure out the optimal time to start my morning bagel a-toastin'.

Then there is the matter of my brakes which are not as well-padded as they are supposed to be.  I'm getting them fixed, but need to baby them lest they start to scrape against things best left unscraped.  Hence, I must carefully consider my braking habits and determine just how much I really want to stop in any given situation.  For example, a child dancing merrily along the center line is a good time to apply the brakes.  Seeing a sign for a shoe sale, while normally the kind of thing I'd stomp on the pedal for, does not really require braking.  

Especially since I need to save the shoe money to pay for the brake repairs...

The phone in my office rang incessantly.  Nonstop.  It didn't matter one little bit that I was trying to teach several classes to kids that weren't particularly interested in learning anything today.  They wanted to watch the snow fall.  They were more than happy to wander off towards the windows every time I had to go answer that stupid phone.  I'd let it go to voice mail, but is usually the office calling me or someone else who is within the building and they just call me back.  They know I'm not going anywhere.  

At the end of the school day, I tried to get some of the photocopying done.  I decided, in the interest of efficiency, to queue up multiple jobs.  This resulted in a paper jam the likes of which the office world has never seen.  I was able to sneak seven of the offending sheets out all by myself (which we are not allowed to do per order of the school secretary) before I had to go get some help.  Three staff people were trying to assist me, all to no avail.  One of them helpfully commented on how I looked like I was trying to birth a calf as I crouched on the floor with my arm up to my shoulder in that stupid machine.

That seemed as good a time as any to call it a day.  You really shouldn't try to get anything else done after you have been compared to a large animal vet in the teacher's room.  Not that this is an insult or anything.  We are fans of the LAV's.  It just isn't my own personal calling is all.

I decided to make a quick trip to the restroom before I left, thinking that it would be a good idea to take care of that bit of business before anything else silly could happen.  I was in a hurry and used the facilities available in my classroom and I couldn't help but be distracted by the thought of all the yucky boy-germs my students must have left in there...

 And that, Dear Readers is how I ended up getting my staff I.D. badge snared in my underpants.  Rather firmly, if you must know.  I didn't see it making the first pass around the elastic and then it was just too late.  That plastic card bearing my world-weary visage clamped firmly upon the fabric of my unmentionables and showed no sign of letting go.

I was utterly flummoxed.  

The path to underpants freedom was an easy one and probably could have been navigated by someone who hadn't just spent her last remaining brain cells tracking down paper that had been accordioned into the depths of a photocopier.  I was not that individual.  I sat there, at first befuddled and then becoming ever more panicked, trying to think of a solution to my dilemma.  What was to become of me?  Would I be stuck there until the morning?  Would I have to confess to the administration that my required identification badge was now to be visible only to my family physician?  Would I have to flag down the custodian during her nightly rounds and have her hoist me from my porcelain throne then use her cleaning cart to transport me to my vehicle now that I could not stand upright?

Fortunately, none of these courses of action were necessary.  I was able to release the plastic card from my underpinnings and proceed with my planned course of action.  I just needed to stop and think for a minute.  But, I gotta tellya...for a second there, I feared for the worst.  I always wanted to go down in history as an educator, but not as the one who was tangled up in her own underpants in the class bathroom.  That is not the sort of thing you want to see on a plaque in the trophy case...

That sort of signaled the end of the foolishness for the day.  The trip home was uneventful and I even managed to keep to my knitting schedule while I pedaled the little exercise bike this afternoon.  I swore that today would be the final day for working on that scarf I've been fiddling around with since September.  I finished off that last mile and cast off the scarf as I was doing so.  A little bit of a soak and a block and I'll have another holiday gift ready to go.

It's an excellent way to end the day.  I won't let it go to my head, though.  Tomorrow, I will use a different clock to judge my departure time, will brake as I see fit, and allow my staff to do the photocopying for me.

I will also remember to take off my I.D. badge before answering any calls of nature...

SA

14 comments:

Julie said...

I am going to take the high road and resist the urge to make a fine china comment ;-)

Anne said...

Okay, you owe me a new keyboard.

Kath said...

Any day that includes your ID getting stuck on your underpants is one that should also include substantial amounts of black & white cookies. I'm sure you burnt off plenty of calories struggling to free your chonies from the evil badge!

April said...

I'm with Anne, you owe me a new keyboard.

Sheepie, you are one of a kind. :)

Agatha's Gran said...

This so smacks of my middle school teaching days. At least the ID badge did not fall INTO the porcelain throne. Thank God for retirement! Hang in there, Sheepie!!

Mia said...

oh sheepie, sheepie, sheepie.. it could only happen to you :)

Karen said...

OK. I hope you have a better day today. Of course it'll be hard to have one worse than yesterday.

Donna Lee said...

We have the ID badges, too. Must be able to recognize the clients from the staff you know. They keep adding cards with helpful information to the breakaway chain around my neck. Things like, "In case of a hostage emergency call 5050". Important info to have. Unfortunately, there is no card detailing what to do in an underwear emergency. I'll get them right on it.

Anonymous said...

That Julie's a big chicken!
Carol

Cursing Mama said...

I suppose its better to go down in history for something rather than nothing at all....

trek said...

I've never had any sort of training on what to do if the ID badge gets tangled in the underpinnings, either. Can you imagine how much research would have to go into such a training seminar?

First, they'd have to address underwear categories by gender - always hoping that any cross-dressing staff members wouldn't get all offended; then there are the age-old questions: boxers/briefs/bikini (jock-strap?) and briefs/hipsters/bikini/thong; and what about the differences between fibers (we all know how important fiber analysis is) cotton/lycra/polyester/blend.

This could end up being a whole day seminar with only a 45 minute break for lunch - and visits to the bathrooms where we would all employ our new-found techniques.

Yarnhog said...

That's when you know it's time to call it a day. Yup.

I got my underpants stuck in my zipper, once. And my son once got his...never mind.

Knitting Linguist said...

Bwahaha! My coffee just came out my nose.

Kathleen said...

I am a regular reader of your blog, just never comment. I have a question. Did you not just buy this vehicle with braking problems? I have my truck 8 years and I just got brakes.